Perspective

The arrangements had been made ahead of time. We were trying very hard to keep it civil. All the fighting was done. There was very little left to say. The months apart had quieted me. Putting down the bottle helped. I started to realize that this process would go a lot easier if we could act like adults. So, when she told me that she was moving out of her parent’s house into her own place and she wanted a few things from the house we had shared to get started, I agreed. A list had been created and division was done. We both did our best to keep our heads and just push through what is always a difficult time.
I told her that I would leave a key in the mailbox and that she could come in the afternoon. It was a crisp January Saturday and I was going into work for a few hours to clean out my in box and prepare some document production requests. I told her I wouldn’t be home until around 6:30 and she assured me that she would be done by then.

That evening, as I turned the corner on to the street I lived, I realized that she had misjudged her timing. Her car was still in the driveway and the trunk was up. A small U-haul trailer was attached to the rear, filled with the things that were leaving for a new home. I almost kept going past, to give her more time. But, I thought maybe she was waiting for help with a particularly heavy item and I pulled in and started for the door.

She was standing in the foyer as I walked in, a little shocked that I was there. She said that she hadn’t realized the time and that she would be out my hair momentarily. I told her that wasn’t a problem and I grabbed a soda and headed for the back porch to catch a smoke and give her some space. I knew this had to be as hard on her as it was for me. I knew what was happening was for the best, but actually seeing your belongings in a trailer to be taken away by someone you thought would be sharing them with you forever was difficult to say the least. I lit my cigarette and started thinking of all the ways it had gone wrong.

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I had been writing in some form since I was nine years old. It started when my parents split up. My father was not a fan of weakness, especially from his one and only son. He didn’t want to see any tears. It just wasn’t manly. So, to express what I felt, I wrote. I wrote everyday.

I remember him questioning me on the amount of notebooks that I seemed to need for school. And when I requested them the following summer, his suspicion grew. Although I always did well in school, he knew for sure that I wouldn’t be doing school work during my time off. I hid my writing from him. I am not sure why. I think it was the fear of showing weakness. I thought he would see it as something that only overly sensitive little boys do and that wasn’t going to fly for his son. Slap pads on my shoulders or a glove in my hand and he was fine with that. But, writing? No, that just wasn’t going to do. I knew that as sure as anything. So, I hid my writing in the darkness of night, under the covers with a flashlight and a few well sharpened pencils.

I wrote about things that nine year olds should never have to write about. The fear of being a part of a broken home. Being separated from my mother and sisters. About the nights that Dad would sit in the chair in the living room, scotch in hand, Sinatra on the stereo. I wrote about the monsters that I felt were following me and doing these terrible things to my life. And I wrote about Colleen, who lived down the street.

In the summer after my tenth birthday, I came home from a basketball game at a neighbor’s house to find my father sitting at the kitchen table. My notebooks, which had been hidden under my mattress…all the way in the middle so no one could reach, were lying in the middle of the floor. He just stared at me for what seemed like forever. He rose from the chair after a few minutes. I was locked in place. He picked up each notebook one at a time, slowly and deliberately; as if to pile on the disgust that he had to even touch them. When the last one was gathered, he walked to the trash can…looked back at me and let them drop.

The message was clear. This is garbage and we don’t save garbage.

It was many years later before I picked up a pen and tried to create again. I will say that initially it wasn’t easy. I carried around that vision of my father’s look as he dropped my words into the trash. I knew that I never wanted to see that again. But, I was grown. I lived on my own. I had served my country. I could do what I wanted. As long as no one ever knew.

It wasn’t until six months after I was married that my secret was discovered. By then, I had many notebooks and journals full of narrative and fiction that started and never finished or completed, but was never satisfied with. I knew there was some gem in all of this, but I just couldn’t put it together. I kept trying to write a novel or a screenplay, but I couldn’t seem to put multiple stories together so they made one cohesive unit. I was never satisfied. And I never shared it. At least, not intentionally.

I came home from work one Wednesday evening, not surprised that she wasn’t home. Her and my sister had taken Wednesday nights to be there “Girls Night” out. I never asked. I don’t think I wanted to know. I went into my room, to my desk and opened the locked lower drawer. This is where I kept my notebooks. Safe from prying eyes. Safe from judgment.

I tried to get some work done, but was just feeling tired. I went to bed early that night. A long weekend of work was looking me in the face and I just wanted to get some rest and not think about what was going on for “Girls Night.”

It was about 2 am when I woke up. I thought she had fallen asleep with the television on. I heard laughter and some muffled talking. And over it all, a voice talking in a cadence that resembled an untrained actor reading from a teleprompter. I turned on my bedside light and started out of be to investigate the situation when I was frozen in my tracks. The bottom drawer of my desk was open. I was sure I had closed it. Had I locked it? I couldn’t recall. I never forgot. Never left that open. But, I was so tired. Could I have done something so stupid?

As I got into the foyer just outside the living room, I realized there was a small group of women there. My wife was propped up on the arm of the couch, my books on the table and one in her hands. She was reading out loud the words that I had written for no one.

And they were laughing.

I stepped into the room and it got quiet real fast. Everyone stared at me, the oxygen just sucked from the room. In that vacuum, I stood solid, not sure exactly what to do or say. So, I turned on my heal and headed back to my room. The laughter broke out as soon as I closed the door. In the morning I went to the living to find all my things scattered about. I picked them up, returned to my desk and locked them away in their safe place.

“You do realize that now, they aren’t just your’s anymore? I have known about the for a long time. It’s not the first time I have read them. It’s not the first time we have reviewed them and considered what a joke you are. They aren’t just yours anymore. They are the entertainment of all.”

I got up from my desk, went to the shower to get ready for work. I never spoke of that night again.

About two years later, the law firm I was working for upgraded their computer systems. All the desktop workstations were put up for auction to the employees. I was lucky enough to land one with a laser printer. I took it home with a few dozen floppy discs and proceed to transcribe my stories from my notebooks. Once a book was completed, I put it in my briefcase, took it to work and had it shredded. I then would save everything onto the floppy discs. I figured that I would never have to worry about that horrible night occurring again. She didn’t know how to turn on a computer, much less bring up anything on those discs. I just had to keep my printing to a minimum. No hard copies. No real need. No one was ever going to see them. It was no time before I had to buy another dozen discs to hold all of what was pouring out of me. My dreams, my visions, my thoughts and prayers. All collected on these flimsy discs. Security of the day. I felt safe knowing they were safe.

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I finished my smoke and headed back inside to see if she needed my help. I thought that if I was kind to her, if I remained civil, it would all go smoothly and be over in no time. No pain. No ugly words. Just a good bye and have a nice life and it would be done.

I looked through the main part of the house and didn’t see her. I couldn’t think of anything on our lists that included anything from my bedroom. The spare room I had turned into a den of sorts, moving my desk and computer there. I called it my sanctuary, the place I could let go. The door to that room was open, but it was empty. I noticed the bathroom door was closed and headed for it. I then notice a sound.

Snap. Clink.

At first I thought it was glass breaking. I had a vision of her in the bathroom freaking out a bit and dropping something made of glass. But, the sound was too tinny for glass. It was something else. Something I couldn’t identify.

I knocked on the door and asked if she was okay. She hesitated and the sound stopped. She told me she was gathering the last of her hair and skin products and that she would be out in just a moment. I turned to walk away and…

Snap. Clink. Snap. Clink.

The sounds were getting faster. I detected the second sound seeming to be something striking porcellin and then a faint sound of water. Again, I was at a loss.

“Are you sure your okay?”; I asked.

“I am fine. Just one more minute.”

Snap. Clink. Snap. Clink.

I tried to turn the handle, but it was locked. Something inside of me was telling me I had to get in there. Something was truly not right. After a few attempts at knocking and shaking the door on it’s hinges, it opened.

She stood there with a smile of accomplishment on her face. She had succeeded in whatever her goal was and I was very afraid to find out what that was. I backed away from the door as she exited and told me that she was completely finished and that she would be leaving now.

I entered the bathroom and looked around. I couldn’t find the source of the sounds. I couldn’t figure out what could have been happening here. I sensed her presence and turned to find her standing in the doorway, a smile across her lips.

“Lift the lid, if you are so curious.”

I did.

And there, swimming the water used to remove our waste, were thirty some odd broken floppy discs. By the time I could turn around and ask her why, the front door was closing and she was gone.


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A few of those writings were still on the small hard drive of that old computer, but most were not. The only copy was on those discs. Those thoughts, dreams, feelings, concerns, fears, and stories were gone forever. Such a waste. Such a painful waste.

It took me about ten years before I could think to start writing again. I kept it on my computer, locked away in a secure folder. I would save them to thumb drives that never left my possession. I trusted no one. I shared very, very little.

It remained that way until recently.

Why?

I think it was the realization that there was nothing to be ashamed of in my words. All they were, really, were just my thoughts and experiences. And, those are the things that make me who I am, just as all that occurred in all this are just pieces of the puzzle that create what sits here typing now.

I also understood that there was no way anyone was ever going to really know me unless they had the chance to see inside my head. Unless they got a glimpse of what makes me who I am.

So, with fear set aside, I share. I don’t apologize for what I write anymore. I am not ashamed of it. I am not concerned of what others may think.

Because in the end, to anyone that doesn’t understand…they are just words.

But, they are my words.